


The Boy With 'Angel' In His Name

by bloodlessdandy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 16th Century CE, Art Nerds, Banter, Crowley being a genuine bitch, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Michelangelo may or may not have been curly, Michelangelo was gay y’all, Pre-Canon, Renaissance Gayness, Renaissance Ineffable Husbands, angelical features, cherubs are hella sexy, never trust job interviews, not canonically together yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 11:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19271965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodlessdandy/pseuds/bloodlessdandy
Summary: Aziraphale has often felt flattered – but never quite like the moment when an eccentric, curly-haired artist wants him as his muse.It’s a huge project, he claims. He further states, quite confidently, that his painted ceiling will hardly be overshadowed by any other work in town. He's particularly interested in models with angelic features and Aziraphale happens to have exactly what it takes.Fate, after all, has decided that the artist and the angel shall meet…or has it.





	The Boy With 'Angel' In His Name

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a History of Art nerd and, as such, I must channel the gayness in that direction. And which better figure than the Master of gayness & kink for fat angels himself? the man so perfect for this fic that the word 'angel' is in his name?   
> disclaimer: Aziraphale & Crowley are not canonically a couple yet; as I interpret it, this is still the time when they're getting to know each other and finding out they are more inseparable than they want to admit. Enjoy!

**_Italy, Rome 1508_ **

 

I.

It is common for immortal beings residing on Earth to find a job every now and then. Firstly, because they have to maintain a certain appearance of mortality. You complete your studies, you find a job, you retire; human life relies on certain cycles. Secondly, finding an occupation is good to avoid being labelled as outcasts and, as such, arise suspicion. Being inserted in a workplace allows the non-earthly beings to mingle with the natives and create bonds. Immortal beings residing on Earth need to adapt. The angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley are no exception.

 Clothed in the finest silk, the angel Aziraphale was headed to his first job appointment in Rome. He did not feel – to be completely honest – prepared.  When he had gone out of his lodgings that morning, in fact, he could barely imagine what an eventful day was waiting for him. It had been a late lunch with the right aquaintances to decide the outcome of the day.

As he walked slowly towards the door, he barely paid any attention to any possible obstacle or any person on his way, fascinated as he was by the majesty of that luminous, fully-frescoed corridor. After all, he was to be received by an artist; of course his lodgings were of exquisite beauty and lavishness. Had Aziraphale been an earthling – and had he been stably living in the area – he would have recognised the artist’s name, whose fame preceeded him. However, the angel had simply been sent to Rome some months prior ‘on Heaven’s duty’; an expression that was, at the time, a bit too popular among a plethora of Pope wannabes.

When reaching the door, wide open in front of him, Aziraphale murmured a ‘May I?’ accompanied by a gentle knock, out of politeness.

‘You must be Aziraphale.’ An excited fellow, curly-haired and rough around the edges got up from a quite unstable-looking stool. ‘What a real pleasure meeting you.’ He reached out, squeezing his hand energetically.

 ‘The pleasure is all mine, Mastro…’

‘Oh, I am no Mastro. People in here call me many names.’ The man smiled, a certain wildness in his eyes. ‘However, you can call me just Michelangelo.’

‘Michelangelo.’ The angel nodded enthusiastically. ‘I have heard of this project of yours just today. Oh, to think about how hard it must be to come up with such a complex design!’

Aziraphale wasn’t the type to contain the excitement mixed with genuine surprise and admiration in his voice. It was true; he had heard of the commission at lunchtime with Mastro Gesualdo, the best cloth merchant in town. Mastro Gesualdo, in fact, had insisted that Aziraphale showed up at the artist’s door that same day. He said he’d fit right in with the project Michelangelo was working on. The ceiling of the papal chapel, a true gem within the Vatican in Rome, was to be covered with the finest frescoes, designed and painted by the artist himself.

‘Indeed. I wouldn’t call myself ambitious, but…a work is needed to make this city splendant again. And that work must be filled with God’s light.’ Michelangelo replied. His voice was quiet, yet charged of a strange energy.

Aziraphale couldn’t quite disagree with what the artist had just said. Broadly speaking, making sure that the light of God was still up and running partly fell into his own section of administration.

‘So, this work of yours-…’ The angel began, after coughing softly to clear his throat.

‘Signor Aziraphale, I need you to be completely complaisant.’ Now the young man with the wild curls and wild eyes was looking at him quite gravely. There was a new seriousness and determination in his voice.

‘I was just about to ask, young man-…’ Aziraphale began, stopping mid-way after realising it was an established artist he was talking to. He still quite remembered that time he got Leonardo Da Vinci mad and he didn’t wish to repeat the same mistake. ‘Michelangelo, dear, I beg you pardon. I was about to ask what my role in all of this would be.’

‘Ah, the importance of your role is beyond your imagination. And you shall be rewarded, dare I say, with a place in Heaven.’

However normal that conversation could sound to a man living in Rome in 1508, Aziraphale couldn’t help but feeling the irony of it all. A gateway to Heaven was, frankly, the last thing he wanted. He bit back a giggle.

‘And what should I do to…ehm, aspire to this Heavenly reward?’ He enquired. Once again, he wasn’t sure of what the job consisted of, and on top of that he found the guy quite funny. Yet, he felt too emotionally invested in the project already to turn his back.

‘Of course you’ll pose for me. And you shall become an angel of the firmament. In the flesh.’

That bit of information was reassuring for the angel, who had been fostering for quite some time now the fear of not finding a suitable occupation because of its intrinsic nature. That job seemed to accommodate both his nature and his need to blend with society.

‘I will do my best to resemble one, then.’ He smiled triumphantly, excitement starting to climb on his rosy cheekbones. Aziraphale was visibly taken over by anticipation. He had always dreamt of being the muse of some important artist. A sculptor, maybe. Or an engraver. Or a painter. Or maybe a man who was all of the above.

The young artist pranced to the other side of the room, where all his tools of the trade were messily scattered on a wooden board. Brushes, raw colors in clay pots, spirits to clean the brushes, pencils and sharpening tools. These last two were the objects he grabbed first, accompanied by a wide hand-cut parchment.

‘I knew you were the man for the job. My dearest friend Mastro Gesualdo hardly ever disappoints me.’ The young artist moved towards the angel, who was standing still in the middle of the room. He was quite pale, but that was no problem a good brushwork couldn’t fix.

‘How kind of him to point me in the right direction.’ Aziraphale smiled, his heart swollen at the thought of the good friend he had made. How lucky he had been to find such an aquaintance and in such a short time. ‘Have you two been friends long?’

‘Oh, I have known him since I was a child. I used to hang around his stand quite a lot. Always up to some mayhem, young me.’ Michelangelo, his parchment and rough pencils in place, took a seat on his wobbly-looking stool. ‘I saw him again just recently. Of course I had no memory of the textiles he used to sell, so I could draw no comparison with the present...’, he distractedly placed the tip of one of his pencils between his lips, not renouncing, nonetheless, to continue his sentence, ‘…however, this time something else caught my eye. There was a new individual working for him. Rather fascinating, I’d say.’

In the meantime, Aziraphale stepped timidly towards the lighter part of the room, where a weird-looking wooden chaise longue was covered in swan-white sheets.

‘I haven’t had the pleasure to meet his assistant yet. However, I must say Mastro Gesualdo has confessed me his business is running so much smoother since he is there.’ With a chuffed smile on his face, the angel took the spot he thought most comfortable.

Michelangelo, who looked in his early thirties, had a concentrated expression on his face. A project so huge, the angel thought, must require an awful lot of preparation. Models to find, sketches to prepare, measurements to take…

Aziraphale, motivated to alleviate the stress of the artist’s current task, decided to break the silence.

 ‘What is the subject at hand?’ The angel asked. Whatever the answer was, he was quite confident that what he had learned from his heavenly upbringing would have come in handy.

‘The angels sounding the seven trumpets. From the book of Apocalypse.’ He whispered; now his pencil lay far from his curled lips, untouched while he fixed the parchment. ‘They are foreshadowing the end of times that will come.’

‘Oh, the end of times. There’s always so much fuss about it.’ Aziraphale’s light observation, accompanied by an equally light laughter, was met with a cryptical nod by the artist, who glanced at him confusedly. A slight blush rose on the angel’s cheeks.

‘Anyway, it’s an impressive amount of ceiling to cover.’ Aziraphale coughed softly. ‘Must be quite a challenge for you.’ He added, an accomodating smile on his angelical lips.

‘Indeed. And it shall never arrive the dawn of the day in which I refuse a challenge.’ He stood up again, looking at the man sitting so composedly on the chaise longue he had carefully arranged. ‘Well, I’d say we can begin.’ He smiled, the hand that was free of brushes and pencils reviving his curls. Michelangelo stood still, as if waiting for something to happen.

Aziraphale, however, was quite unaware of what the artist was exactly waiting for. He was already sitting there. He was ready. Or so he thought.

‘There’s a matter of religious representation, you see,’ Michelangelo coughed as he began to unfold the matter, ‘I take it you are not fully unaware of such a notion yourself...’

Aziraphale looked even more confused, frowning and smiling awkwardly at the same time.

‘…Of course that means you shall pose…in the nude.’ The artist concluded.

 

 

 

II.

 

‘ _Grazie_. That will do just fine, Mastro Gesualdo.’ With a joyous smile on his face, Aziraphale stored the fine silk fabric in his vimini basket. The street markets were thriving in the brightness of that Sunday afternoon.

‘It is the finest you can find in all of Rome.’ The Mastro in charge of the stand kept repeating. He was a funny man with a funny mustache. However, his peculiar appearance gave him the vibe of someone approachable and jovial, someone you could easily converse with. A real perk for his profession, Aziraphale thought.  ‘Although, I have to confess, it wouldn’t have been possible to retrieve these precious fabrics had it not been for my special assistant.’ The ponderous man with the mustache smiled proudly.

‘That friend of yours…You said he was a foreigner, if I’m correct.’ Aziraphale glanced at the man, a curious smile painted on his lips. ‘And that it was him who suggested the meeting with, what’s his name…ah, Michelangelo, yes.’

‘Absolutely. Said Michelangelo needed someone just like my ‘angelic blonde client’.’ The man replied, his eyes on the precious textiles he was carefully folding.

‘I wonder if I might have a quick word with him.’

‘Absolutely, Signor Aziraphale. He’ll surely be in the plant house.’

Aziraphale grinned.

 

III.

‘How _on earth_ did you know?’

‘How did I know what, angel?’

‘That I was here in Rome. Quite frankly, just minding my own business, Crowley.’

No matter how hard Aziraphale tried to convey that un-angelical feeling of being upset, it never quite came out the right way. Deep down, his happiness to see Crowley again subsided any will he might or might not have had to slap him right in the face. Aziraphale and his demonic friend were sitting at a lovely table in one of the angel’s favourites restaurants in all of Rome. He loved the bare, rustic walls that, reflecting the soft candlelight, created a suggestive effect. And he also loved the top quality wine they served.

‘I knew you were. In fact, how rude of me not to say hi sooner.’ Crowley grinned.

‘You’re just terrible, aren’t you.’ Aziraphale sipped his wine, a tone of affectionate amusement in his voice. ‘What are you even doing here?’ It wasn’t possible that he was in Rome on vacation. He knew Crowley very well and he could name at least another ten thousand places where he would have rather been.

‘Ah, the usual.’ He shrugged. ‘A bit of corrupting here, a bit of smuggling there…’ He lifted his cup. ‘Even though the smuggling is just a side job, you know.’

Aziraphale knew. It was mandatory for all immortal beings residing on earth to find a job when inhabiting a place for more than a fortnight. That was the case for both of them, who had been in Italy for quite some time now.

‘You know me. As a good friend, I just saw you all doom and gloom…Thought a nice job would do you good.’ Crowley was visibly amused. He took another mouthful of wine. ‘Would put some colour on your cheeks.’ He then added, smiling shamelessly.

‘I don’t doubt your best intentions, Crowley. But that fellow…’

‘Eh, I know. Quirky dude. Doubtlessly very talented, interesting as well. Maybe a bit of a jerk, if you ask me.’ Crowley put his sunglasses back where they belonged, after they had slightly slid.

Aziraphale noticed then that Crowley’s eyes were shielded by a new pair of sunglasses. They had a different design from the ones the angel had seen the last time. Back then, he remembered, both were staying at the court of Ferrara and it seemed almost natural for Crowley to ask Leonardo Da Vinci for a brand new design. After all, the fellow was _on fire_ drawing all those new avanguardistic prototypes for a bunch of random objects.

Aziraphale couldn’t be mad at him. The demon had always distinguished himself from the other common people, with his peculiar sense of humour and his ruthless banter. After all, Aziraphale treasured Crowley’s uniqueness above all. Even if that uniqueness meant going through a very embarassing situation as the one he had experienced that very afternoon.

‘You can barely imagine how inappropriate the whole thing was.’ Aziraphale took a deep breath before pouring himself another cup of delicious wine. ‘Not that I think the young man had _that kind_ of inclination…’

‘Ah, and that’s where you’re wrong, angel.’ Crowley’s gleaming lips let out a hearty laughter.

‘…It was just unexpected at the beginning. And then…All geniuses must share this trait, there’s no other explanation: he had no manners!’ Aziraphale’s voice jumped of a couple octaves at that declaration. ‘You wouldn’t believe what he told me.’ He then whispered, feeling compelled not to compromise the other customers’ quiet dinner.

‘He told me how lucky he was to have me there – the perfect prototype for his angels.’  You could start to notice his voice changing in tone, from prudishly quiet to mildly agitated. ‘The perfect _shape_ , he said. He was very vocal about how he had no interest in portraying unrealistically lean angels.’ He was evidently flustered by the end of that.

‘Ah, so I was right.’ Crowley declared, a shameless grin on his face. ‘I thought you would have matched the job description just perfectly.’

**Author's Note:**

> ''Mastro'', as found above: used to refer to an owner of an artisan shop; master/runner of a business.
> 
> P.S. you may be a silent reader, and I'll love you. You may want to leave a comment to say if you've liked it, or if when closing the page this fic has left you something...I'd simply love that. I won't lie, any comment will make my day. If you're reading this, though, it means you've made it until the end without closing the page straight away and I'm already so thankful for that. ❤


End file.
